I swear he really was happy

Please enjoy some photo selections from Grammy K.'s stock - I was too busy running around like a crazy person to take any. These are all (of course), ripped off from Facebook, but I collected my faves of the 70+ available. 

Biting

It's about 11:30 here. Cormac woke up again, sad, and I rubbed his back till he felt better about things, but I have no idea how long that will last. He's been far less barfy lately but a lot sadder, and we kind of don't know what to do. Hugs make things better for a bit, so there's that, but after awhile he just goes back to Very Sad Time. Poor Sad Cormac. Little babies shouldn't be sad.

After I tucked the wee one back in I went to check on Iris. She's always been a sleep talker, but tonight was kind of intense. She was definitely asleep. Eyes closed, not moving, but talking, she started muttering about biting. Then she said "Ida was biting me and she was so angry." I tried to tell her (with her eyes closed, while she was sleeping) that Ida wasn't going to bite her; in fact, Ida routinely trots into the kids' rooms while they're asleep and checks on them, but she repeated it again: "Ida was biting me." So finally I just said, "I'm so sorry. I'll tell her not to." Apparently I said the right thing because she heard that and relaxed and fell back into deep sleep. 

Iris usually wakes up at some point in the night and comes to our room. Her typical reason is that bugs are in her bed and they are biting her. This is fully my fault. My dad used to say to us every night before bed, "sleep tight; don't let the bedbugs bite." It was sweet and I thought it was a lovely, heartwarming tradition to uphold so I said it to Iris one time. Once. One. Time.

That's all it took to convince her that bugs lived in her bed and would bite her while she was sleeping.

Heartwarming, no? 

There was a monster who lived in the hallway, and a witch who lived in the bath tub, and a wolf who lived in her closet. All were treated as real, producing actual fear, and providing good reasons to never go to the places they inhabited. We've managed to quash almost all of the random mythological creatures' influence on her routine, but I'm not sure how to handle this "Ida bites me in my sleep" thing. I mean, she doesn't bite Iris. Not even kind of. She trots into her room, checks to see she's there, then goes back to lying under the chair in the living room. Not really sure what to do here.

I think I might get her a wand; teach her to cast spells and banish spirits. If she believes it, I'll move on to giving Cormac a spray bottle containing "sad repellent" and let him squirt the hell out of anything he sees fit. Wish me luck.

The Pink Party Part R.A.(h): The Final Chapter (I swear)

Originally I was going to have Rebecca photograph the party. I will say outwardly that this was because Iris' third birthday was her first she'd actually remember, her first for which she'd actually been self-aware enough to actually have a say in the planning and, while this is all true, it's also the first that I'd put so much effort into the decoration and thematic direction, and I really wanted some professional photos of my pretty, pretty tablescape my beautiful, opinionated child on her birthday.

Anyway, we ended up deciding to wait on a RA photosesh till this summer, when hopefully Cormac can keep his guts in-check and we're all a little more pulled together on pretty much every front. Rebecca Allen, Photog Extraordinaire and Good Friend to boot (it's your official title now; go with it) is so wonderful that she, after having been canceled on for the photosesh in the flippiest of  textual manners (go me), took some shots anyway. She's wonderful, no?

And I'm so wonderful I'm making you go to her website to view the photos and buy many, many prints.

The Grammy Series: Pink Party Part Deux

Okay, I had to make these all really small or blogger wouldn't let me even upload this many. As you can see, the chaos was abundant. I still maintain it was one of the best parties we ever threw. Giant mushy thanks to Grammy K. for getting these photos (see facebook for the full set), since Kyle was preoccupied with maintaining Cormac's happiness (though Grammy did her fair share of that too. huh.), and I was busy running around like a crazy person trying to keep the party going (we have fifty-seven candles in this house and the only ones I could find were non-matching, slightly pre-used, and one was shaped like the letter "E.").

Aside to Aunt Di: Sorry the only photo of you is with your eyes closed - you look so dang cute I couldn't resist.

One more photo-heavy post soon about the Pink Party then I swear I'm letting it go. Enjoy!

Want That

So I've been working on losing weight. By working on it, I mean doing slightly less than absolutely nothing, in that I do everything exactly the same as before, I just don't eat as much, and when I do, it's something much less likely to cause me to gain weight. The only way I know (for now) to guarantee that what I eat is not going to make me gain weight is to eat one of those little frozen dinners/breakfasts (they're making great strides in frozen omelets. no, really.) and then a re-freaking-diculous pile of baby carrots. So basically I cook less (amazing amounts of time saved, guys), eat less, and weigh less. Revolutionary. It's going really slowly and I'm trying not to focus on it too much at all, but it's SUPER exciting to start fitting into old clothes again.

So as much as I pull on my tiny pants and make Kyle tell me my butt looks nice, I have been trying hard not to let Iris hear me go on too much about it. Losing weight hasn't changed my character in any way, or made me suddenly smarter or more successful, it just made my butt smaller, yaknow? And the size of my butt really has no bearing on anything other than the size of my pants.

Iris likes to read the same stories over, and over, and over again till she's memorized them. She likes to have the same conversations that many times over again as well, so we have a LOT of repeat conversations around here. In reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar (Iris: "Can we read the vewwy hungry pattykiller?" Totally.) we always get to the end of the book, when the caterpillar isn't hungry anymore, he's really fat, and he's ready to cocoon down and become a butterfly, and have the same conversation. Every time, like EVERY time, Iris goes, "the caterpillar is fat. (Adult who Iris knows but who I'm not about to out today) is fat too." The first time she said that I was all "WHO said that to you? WHY would you say that about her? She is NOT FAT." Her response: "She told me she was fat."

I was floored. I'm sorry people, but telling a toddler you are fat goes way beyond your own self-image or issues with yourself. I can state completely emphatically and correctly that we do not know anybody who is overweight enough that they should be described as fat. And that word is SUCH a loaded gun; it carries so many horrible self-image issues and societal burdens and just, so many -isms I can't even begin to analyze.

Now my kid has the information that a regular sized adult is fat. Now, if she ever gets close to that size (this person is PERFECTLY NORMALLY SIZED, IF NOT ON THE SMALL SIDE), she's going to think she herself is fat. What is a child to do with this information? She's already of the opinion that being fat is bad, so will my perfectly normally sized child then someday start taking measures to make herself smaller? Is she going to start to believe that by calling herself fat, she's somehow being humble? I don't know. I hope I can model good behavior and self-image/esteem/worth and combat this terrible mind/body relationship that she's been shown.

Mostly I just want her to forget about it. No child should ever look at themselves and think about whether or not they see a fat person looking back, and I'm pissed that anyone introduced the concept to her. I mean, she was two years old when that conversation took place. That is ridiculous. I want her to look at herself and focus not on her size, but on making sure she doesn't have schmutz stuck to her face, or that her clothes are on straight or something. I want a few more years before I have to worry about my little girl obsessing about her body. I want her to equate getting bigger with growing stronger and older, not fatter.

Uhg, I feel like I'm just ranting in circles now. Know what? I'm gonna take my size-whatever butt, and my pink dress-obsessed daughter, and we're going to dress up all fancy and go on a date. And when she says to me "Mommy, you look beauuuuuuutiful," I will not respond by putting myself down. I will thank her, and compliment her outfit as well. She will learn that it's okay to love the way you look, and she will learn how to be gracious, and complimentary, and she will feel good about herself, and no part of our conversation will have anything to do with fatness. I want that to be true forever.

The Manly Missus

Iris received a set of pink mustaches for girls from Lois for her birthday. Tagline on the package: "Don't be caught in public with a naked upper lip!" Each one is a different shape and comes with its very own name: The Frida, The Grandma (what??), The Cowgirl, The Bollywood, The Lip Liner, The Heroine, and of course, The Manly Missus. In a fit of style overload, Iris combined the Frida, Heroine, and Manly Missus to create this pink monstrosity of awesomeness.

Also apparently I only take photos in front of this little book case. Huh.

Party Time!

EXCELLENT! (had to do it) So here are some snaps of Iris' Pink Party! There are a few unremarkable shots still living on my phone, but these are some that I stole from facebook (raise your hand if you're suprised I did that... is that crickets? just checking). Anway, as such, I know almost all of you have already seen these, but what the hey - I'm sure someone out there is still resisting the pull of the great FB (lookin' at you, K-Lonzo).

I took this before the party started. The rainbow-arms? Yeah, those are legwarmers specifically ordered for this party. Apparently they are sleeves now.

After her school birthday party, Iris came home all aflutter that her friends sang a song about her birthday, just for her. She was so touched by that. When it happened again, at her house (!!!), she turned to me right after she (we) blew the candles out, hugged my neck super hard, and, with tears in her eyes said, "I'm so happy!"

Kyle manned the present-opening portion of the afternoon. Please note the serious, "I am now dispensing Fatherly Advice" scene portrayed here. Also do please note the Pink Panther t-shirt (thanks Grammy!).

Iris' Pink Party

Blishhhhh

Once upon a time, these web log thingies were supposed to be online journals. I could be mistaken, but I feel that perhaps journal indicates a level of attention to detail heretofore untouched by this tiny pocket of the internet.

I didn't set out to intentionally gloss over life, but responsibility for this kind of thing tends to lead to the kind of circular naval-gazing which pretty much always ends with, "well nobody cares about THAT, so never mind...." Do you care about the mundanity in El Chap? Well, you're here, so I guess you do. Let's take these new shoes for a lap around the store, folks.

Cormac started waking me up this morning around five, five-thirty (read: smacking me in the face and grunt-shouting repeatedly till I woke up and noticed that morning nursing time had run its course). I finally gave up at quarter to six. Slinking past Iris' room revealed her to be awake, still in bed, singing full-belt a song I have no doubt she composed on the spot. I peeked my head in, invited her to get up and hang out with us, and she, like the precious good-hearted child that she is, looked over to her night light (which shows a moon when it's time to stay in bed, and switches to a sun when it's time to get up), saw that the "sun" was up, and said, "Okay, Mommy, the sun said it was okay, right?" MomSigh forever.

Change Number Two's diaper. Recommend potty break for Number One. Liquid ice cream/cake batter bottle for FBK (gentlease formula/rice cereal), chocolate milk for the Whiz (carnation instant breakfast), Coke Zero for myself (weight watchers zero points!!!), then morning PBSKids time is afoot. By this point, Cormac has vomited at least 10 times since the smack/shout party began back in bed, and the span of time this marks is somewhere in the 30 minute range.

Change Cormac's clothes; apply bib. Don robe because it's cold; admonish Number One for getting naked, again, when it's clearly colder than satan's toes over here. Agree to live and let live, change diaper, change Cormac's clothes, spot-clean the carpet where barf splattered, again, think about making breakfast.

Walk to the kitchen to make breakfast with robe open and trailing behind, Iris shouts, "You're like SuperMom with your cape! Cormac has a cape too (fingers his hand-towel-bib which drapes evenly over front/back), he's like SuperCormac!"

Indeed.

Prop baby up in bouncy seat on the counter. Frighten firstborn with speed of omelet execution with the hope of avoiding FBK meltdown. Iris, would you like ham in your omelet? Yes! Would you like green peppers and garlic? Yes! Do you want to help me whisk the eggs? YES! Chop/sautee/mix/pour/wait, wait, wait... omelet!

Mom, can I have some toast? momsigh....Yes.

Diaper, change clothes, new bib, nurse, bottle, nurse, nurse, re-dress the big one, locate coffee, repeat.

8:10 AM, Kyle emerges from his allotted one day of sleeping-in per week. Sees remaining (still warm!) omelet waiting on the counter for him, eats bowl of cereal. WifeSigh?

Kyle takes the dog out, Iris dances and sings some more, Cormac screamybarfgrunts several thousand more times, then finally takes his morning nap. As do I, on the couch, while dreaming about nursing and getting smacked in the face, and being intermittently woken up to tend to Iris' random motor skill limitations.

Looks like this whole journaling thing really is as mundane as I thought, and you only got the first couple hours of the day. I'll be kind and leave it here. Please remember this when you ask me to blog more, friends. For no other reason than I'm sure you had better things to do with the last several minutes of your life, let's agree I'll leave that "publish post" button alone till something actually happens.

Ok, So

It's been a minute. Got that. Sorry dudes. Not a lot to recap over here, really. Here's some pictorial narrative to ease your mind:

Cormac wants to sit up now! He can't, mind you, but the exersaucer provides him with some moments of greatness. Also note the drool. He's teething. Already. Teething + reflux = ?? I'll tell you what it equals: laundry. Let's all applaud Kyle's tireless efforts in that department. He's like the linen whisperer.

Iris has many babies. They all have names and they all must go to bed before she does. Usually she locates various individual locations throughout the house that would actually be somewhat appropriate places for real babies to sleep. They are always lovingly wrapped in blankets and propped up on pillows, in various (actual, live human, family members') beds, on boppies, etc. This photo documents the first occasion that a small segment of her babies slept on a pallet and had a slumber party. Meet Baby Alex, Baby Cormac, and Baby Iris (left-right). Yes, the long red-headed girl-doll is Baby Cormac. Discuss. This photograph by no means captures all of the babies in their beds, btw. There are probably another four babies (at least) not pictured.

I was afforded the opportunity to sit outside DURING DAYLIGHT HOURS recently. Because of this awesomely catastrophic global anti-winter situation we're in, I was very comfortable in the 50+ degree weather, and I got to watch the sun set. This is the view from my back porch. Please feel free to express your jealousy in the comments.

Since Logan and Iris are in the same classroom at CMS, I get to benefit from all of Rebecca's photography of various school adventures. Iris' class went on a field trip to one of those "paint some ceramics"-type places today. This candid shot, while beautiful, doesn't quite relay the joy I know Iris felt once she began painting her plate. She's turning out to be quite the artiste (!); once she got home, all she could talk about was how she painted her plate with pink and white, and also purple! And she decided not to make any shapes, she just wanted to see what the colors all looked like next to each other.

A little pink

(Conversation had with Iris countless times over the past several months)

MOMMYDAD: Hey Iris, what color is Mom's hair?

THE WHIZ: It's kinda brown.

MD: What color is Dad's hair?

WHIZ: It's kinda brown too! And curly.

MD: Okay, so what color is your hair?

WHIZ: It's pink.

MD: Really? Your hair is pink? I thought it was brown!

WHIZ: Yeah, it's brown, but also it's a little pink.

Fig. 1: Just keeping her honest

Fig. 2: Relax, it's Manic Panic. Totally washes out.

Semolina Pilchard

Cormac has brief periods of false lucidity wherein he says things like, "Hey Mom." Sometimes it's just "Mommmmmm." I usually respond with "Hi! How's it going?" Then he barfs on himself.

He's been smiling and chattering with little babyvoice noises recently. I like to encourage him, so I do little dances and sing songs with him when he starts talking. Iris gets in on it and drops that little booty like it's hot. Iris is always down for a dance party, with or without music.

Anyway, today I sat with Cormac on the couch, just chilling out after work and trying to tame his cold/reflux issues, and I swear I'm not making this up, he said, "coo coo cachoo!" And then he barfed on himself.

Let Me Sum Up

...Buttercup is marry' Humperdinck in a little less than half an hour. So all we have to do is get in, break up the wedding, steal the princess, make our escape... after I kill Count Rugen...

Sorry, I had to go there.

Anyway, Iris likes school. She cried when I left her the first two days (like, monkeyed herself to my neck and had to be pried off by a surprisingly strong teacher's aid), then on the third day, bemoaned school in general for the entire ride in, then let me go without even a sideways glance. Win.


A couple of nights ago, in an effort to kill time while Kyle was at work, I bathed both kids. Iris, then Cormac, got all clean and snuggy and good-smelling. I tucked them both into the couch with me and everything was just delicious. Then Iris got up to "clean up some crumbs" and swiped her hand through a hidden pile of errant ketchup from dinner. Then (says the ketchup-enhanced child), I picked up Kashmir because she was sad, and there's cat hair on my ketchup, oh hey, I have to pee. Oh, I peed on the floor... oh, and the rug... and also Mommy it got on my legs and my socks. Hey, can you help me?


About three hours prior to this event, Iris informed me that she was going to work, she'd see me after lunch, she loved me and, okay-bye-bye. When I disentangled myself from nursing a few minutes later to investigate the disturbing silence, I found Iris in the refrigerator. Let me explain. I mean that Iris was bodily and wholly INSIDE of the refrigerator. It was shut as much as she could get it shut while standing inside of the refrigerator.

I honestly do not know how to express my total horror and also inappropriate abject amusement at this turn of events. I mean, this level of terror, this is karma, right? I seem to recall a warm, tired voice telling me she couldn't wait till I had kids who were exactly like me. So, that happened. Neat. Can't wait for this show to really get interesting. Perhaps I'll go scrounge up my 13-year-old person's diary and review a bit.

Meanwhile, in New Kid Land, I was simultaneously pooped, peed and barfed upon the other day. Then a few hours later, Cormac lay astride the boppy, looked right at me with a precious little gummy grin, and flipped me right off. Almost got a picure of that one too. It was. so. awesome. Those two facts pretty much encapsulate all there is to know about Cormac these days. I'm going to get him a little bathrobe and start referring to him only as The Dude.

Both kids are napping right now. It is 74 degrees and sunny on this fine November 13th, and I am sitting on my deck, hanging out with the dog. I can hear "This Magic Moment" softly twinkling in my ears, and little birds just carried a garland of sparkly unicorn magic to me in their beaks. Win.

Iris at school

Iris is going to start at a new school next week, and she was invited to participate in their halloween party this past Monday. Rebecca Allen, photog extraordinaire, fellow classroom parent, and good friend to boot, snapped these shots from the party.

Eating a super nutritious rice krispy treat

Hanging with Logan

LOVING Logan

This is a really precious shot, till you learn that she got plowed down by a very large five-year-old moments later. Ah, memories.

Freaky

Well, I think the kiddos are about the same age in these photos. I must say, I always thought Iris was a pleasantly chubby baby, but she had nothing on the new kid. I have no idea how much Cormac weighs now, but it's certainly more than Iris' petite 8 week old, 11lb. self. I mean, he's four weeks old today (omg), and definitely already has that weight beat.

Anyway, not much to say today, more later. Probably. Go look at cute baby pics on Facebook. :)

My Buddy and MEEEEEEE

You guys remember that song? If not, save yourselves and DO NOT google it. If so, I hope you cherish that earworm for the rest of the century.

Aren't they just totally stinking cute though?

So anyway. I started this post many days ago - not sure how many, but I'm sure that when I post this little bloggerism the date will remind me. What I meant to say those many days ago, is that Iris loves her new brother. She wants to hold him all the time and literally grips him to her body when he starts to get fussy there on her lap and I need to take him away for a little snack or whatever.

What she hates is her newfound lack of attention, or at least her lack of immediate attention when she wants something rightnowmom pweees pweees pweeeeeees. It's really sad, because it always ends in massive big fake tears, which turn real pretty quickly. Not a lot can be done, even for the real ones, when you're stuck in a chair nursing an almost asleep newborn. She had her share of potty accidents (only three, then the reemergence of super-bribery-by-candy happened), she had her big fake fits over anything she could think of (I want toast! Is presented with toast. NOOOO I don't WANT DAT! WHYYYYYYYYY?), and she has of course entered the land of inappropriate laughter in the face of confusing challenges (baby is crying, poop spewed so far it hit the wall, nobody is directing attention Iris' direction: freak out). Okay, I might have injected some inappropriate laughter in that situation had I been in her shoes, so that can be forgiven...

Okay, obviously they can all be forgiven, since she's TWO and everything. Two year olds get an out for purposefully incendiary behavior, since they are only doing what they know how to do to get the kind of attention they need. She has peppered various encounters with questions like, "Mommy, you happy now? You not angry?" Oh, jeez. Just stab me a little more with your big sad guilt trip face. I teared up a bit and meant to ask Kyle about it in private, when, in front of friends, Kyle said: "We should compare notes on what she does to get out of bed time. She asked me for water, and to go potty, and told me her tummy hurt, then she asked me if I was going to yell at her." Oh. So THAT'S how it's gonna be? Captain Manipulation, thy name is Iris.

Still. Two year olds are babies who need lots of hugs and patience. Even the tall ones who look like four year olds and even talk like them too. Ack.

Things are much better today, and I expect will be better tomorrow too. We're getting there, and oh, by the way, did I mention that Cormac is the sweetest, most easy going baby ever? No? The easy ones always get ignored, man. More on him later (the neglect! It's already happening!), but right now I need to polish off this box of wine that Grandpa R. so thoughtfully got going for me last week (Franzia: It's a family afairrrrrr), and also address my weird love of parenthetical commentary today.

P.S. The Franzia: THANKS GRAMMY K!

Scenes of Macho Times

8:30pm, the living room, last night:

Mom! I'm eating dis fing wif Dad it's wike chips an' cheese an' sour keeeem an' it's DEWISHUS. Dad made it an' dere's cheese wike sprinkled on it. I eatin' it.

Yeah, I used the tortilla chips that were already opened, so I'm a little disappointed because they're stale, and these could have been so much better. I should have done the chip check before I put them in the microwave. *scoffs somewhat bitterly* I mean, they were still good, and I was really glad to have the opportunity to put sour cream on something...

7:37am, the living room, this morning:

I hungry. I need some fooooooOOd.

Okay, we have craisins and bagels and cereal and fruit...

I wike cheese and sour keeeem. I wike chips.

Iris are you asking for nachos for breakfast?

Yeah!

Well, can you at least attempt to eat something healthy first?

Okay, I eat some raisins?

Cool. Let's do this.

8:17am, in front of PBSkids, this morning

Hey Iris, how's your breakfast?

(whispers reverently) Dere's cheese an'.... wike sour keem...chewchewchew...dis a chip...chewchew...Mom, I wove machos.

A Month In The Life

I know it's been a month and I'm total fail at blogging, but I'm not about to start getting better today. I have a quick break at work which I will use to post some stuff super quick like, but for a real update you'll have to wait till I screw my brain on a little tighter than it is now.

The Great Lone Range, or Why My Butt Loves The Couch Way More Than Me

So Iris and Kyle did go out of town, and lo, there was much lazing and repose. On my part, that is. Kyle and Iris did whatever they did, and it was all a mystery that I don't care to solve. I decided that I was so excited for their departure was going to miss them so much that I simply had to snap a photo right before they got on the road. Don't they look joyous? So precious in their stylishly coordinating travel costumes, those Kelleys....


Anyway, I actually did have to work the first two days they were gone, so it's a good thing Grammy took pity on me and babysat Iris for the weekend. I got all my work done and sat on the aforementioned sofa, and I do believe that was the last time FBK was small enough to avoid directly stimulating my sciatic nerve. If you're not familiar with your sciatic nerve and what it can do, do not bother trying to learn. That would be like researching what, exaaaactly jellyfish stings are like.

I was all set to blog about stuff that weekend, in fact, but then Babs' charger broke (Barbara Jean - the Apple laptop), and I had to rush order a new one. Then I was going to meet Grammy and Papa in Concordia to pick up Iris, and noticed the huge bolt/nut/washer combo sticking out of my driver's side tire. I did not drive to Concordia that day. G & P did bring Iris back home though, which is nice, since I kind of like my kid and everything. And - bonus - they fixed my tire too!

MOMMY, TakemypictureCHEEEEEEEZE!

Iris really likes having her picture taken now. She actually directs photo shoots starring her. It's... kinda weird in an endearing little way. I think it might be the "CHEESE" face that gets me the most. I mean, it reminds me of one of those poor, harried stage children whose mothers bleach their teeth and put them on toddler diets. I seriously have no idea where she learned that. I barely even wash my own hair, so I think I can safely opt out of that little blame cycle. Fortunately these shots look relatively natural. Here is a small sampling of a recent photo shoot:




Irisey With The Fringe On Top

The hair in the face was about to kill me. So, as much as I hate bangs, hated having them growing up and hate that they make children look creepily precocious, it had to be done. I stood her up on the toilet lid last night and chopped those suckers off. They are crooked and jaggedy, but at least she dosen't look like one of those Afghan dogs with the hair and the not-seeing and whatnot anymore.

Oooo, Let's Dance, Awight?
...quoth Iris when she first heard this song, and then of course again every time after. This is the time when I shamefully admit that my kid likes dance music. Like, that one might find in a dance club. For dancing. I um... will be sitting on my couch with my unwashed hair. Someone who likes glow sticks and sequins can be responsible for endoctrinating Iris into the land of technopop:

(Sorry - would have embedded the actual video but Yeasayer said "no," if you can believe it.)

Miscellany - Ask Me Later

We bought a house! We did not manage to sell one though.

The dog died and I didn't even cry. Only part of that statement is true.

I like yard sales and I especially love preparing to host one! That entire statement is false, which makes the likelihood of its occurrence no less probable.

Cats only barf where bare feet go, and children only pee on the floor when you're late for something - discuss.

I'm way pregnant. Whoa.

100 Days

Well would you look at that! One hundred days of pregnancy to go. That's crazy! I think it was right around this point in my last pregnancy when I decided that I was really very over this whole preggo ride and would like to get off now please and thankyouverymuch. It's not so bad this time, but I can tell you that all of the crap that hurts when you're pregnant now hurts, so I'm not like, savoring every second either. I'm probably just better equipped to handle it all since I know what's coming and I clearly lived through it once before.

We had our last ultrasound today, which was really just a follow-up because FBK wouldn't move to accommodate pictures of his heart last time. He is definitely for sure still a boy, and today's ultrasound tech couldn't stop gushing over the beauty and perfection of his heart. He weighs 2lbs6oz, which is apparently on the high end of the normal range for size at this gestational age. This is me not worrying. Totally not worrying. Still within normal ranges. Anyway I have the standard gestational diabetes test next month so we'll find out if he's on his way to being abnormally large. I'm not worried about it, but I guess we'll see.

There were pictures, but I don't have them ready yet. I can tell you that FBK and The Whiz have the same nose and of course they share the hobbit feet of doom. Sorry kids. I'll try to get those pics up tomorrow!

Iris Music Thursday: Somebody Hug The Cheese!

I'm really very sorry to be doing this to you. I really, really am. As someone who has lived the reality of this song on repeat for days, I can tell you with pristine sincerity that I am completely remorseful to impose this earworm on you. In the spirit of honesty though, I'm required to share.

I don't know how to explain Iris' love of this song. She wants to sing it or hear it all the time. She likes the predictability of the lyrics, for sure. She bops her little butt around to the tune, while nodding her head in time with the beat in a very serious, musical connoisseur-type fashion. She's cool with the farmer, the wife and the child. She's fairly ambivalent about the nurse, but by the time we get to the dog part, she knows that the cat part comes right after, which directly precedes the mouse, and she is not pleased with the mouse. The mouse takes the cheese, you understand, and the cheese stands alone!

Iris: Mommy, da cheese crying!
Me: Yeah, the cheese is alone, isn't he?
Iris: Yeah, he sad. He crying.
Me: Well yeah, there were a couple of tears, but look, they dried up! I think he feels better. I, for one, don't really mind being alone. It's kind of nice sometimes, really. Refreshing, you know?

Iris: ...

Me: What?
Iris: Mommy. Da cheese sad. He need a hug. Why he sad? MOMMY! Da cheese SO SAD!
Me: Hey, why don't we go watch something a little more uplifting like Elmo, or Gabba Gabba, or like shark week or really anything else...

Iris: NOOOOOOOOOO MOMMY, FARMER DELL! FARMER DELL!

ad infinitum...



I'd also like to note as a point of extreme awesomeosity, that when this video finishes and that little list of YouTube inspired suggestions pops up, the same production team who brought you this fine specimen offers another nursery rhyme called "Goosey Goosey Gander." We watched it after the very first viewing of this video because hey - it's a nursery rhyme! Says so right here! I don't really know nursery rhymes, American or otherwise. I'm sure there was a part of my life that was absolutely full them, but that was like 25+ years ago, so you know... I don't know any nursery rhymes.
Anyway, "Goosey Goosey Gander" is an Indian nursery rhyme about an old man and a goose. The old man decides not to say his prayers, so the goose grabs his leg and throws him down the stairs. Twice. The end. That was just a freaking excellent way to bounce back from the sad cheese incident.

Future blackmail fodder

I'm afraid things aren't going to be too updatey around here for awhile. I am heading off to the great District of Columbia (not to be confused with the fine shops located in The District IN Columbia; entirely different locations, I assure you). I'll be gone from Wednesday evening till Sunday afternoon. I will likely miss Iris Music Thursday! this week, and frankly have no intention of thinking of anything even remotely associated with adult responsibilities while traveling. So you're not likely to hear from me till after my return. Fortunately for my lovely readers, 87% of you are the people I'm going to visit, so not too many people will be vastly disappointed with my bloggy absence, as you will be reveling in the awesomosity that is spending time with dear ol' me in the flesh. You're welcome.

I have compiled this delicious selection of photo/video offerings for your viewing pleasure, and to hopefully tide you over till regularly scheduled programming recommences.

Iris' current favorite outfit. We had to hide the shoes - it was just getting out of hand and they are so small they cut her feet now. Also? The no pants thing: better learn to love it because it's her preferred state now.

ROCK from Megan Kelley on Vimeo.

Iris and I happened to be playing in the yard the last time band practice happened. I'm serious, she stood next to the garage and rocked out this way for like 20 minutes. It. Was. Awesome.

Future Colin Burgess from Megan Kelley on Vimeo.



And this is what we've done many Saturday mornings in a row now, till we had to prepare the house for sale and the snare drum *mysteriously* found itself relocated to the garage one night while Iris was asleep.

P.S. Do you like the new blog design? Books are neat, right? The new layout makes me absurdly happy, so if you don't love it, for God's sake, lie to me.